To the Limits of Endurance
by LadyLilyMalfoy
Summary: The beginnings of a relationship is hard enough as it is without your boyfriend's brother being Sherlock Holmes. A Mystrade Oneshot.


**A/N: Sooo...My new obsession is Mystrade :) Never seriously shipped before but oh good lord these two... I can't quite bear it! So, this is my first shippy fic and also the first story really kind of based on my own angst - do double catharsis ftw! Enjoy!**

**Oh, and it's not properly beta'd as most of it was done in the wee hours of the morning and it's exhausted me...**

* * *

**To the Limits of Endurance.**

_**A Mystrade Fanfiction**_

_**By LadyLilyMalfoy **_

It had been an entire week of Clearing-Up-After-Sherlock for both Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade and the moment Saturday had rolled round, they had retreated to Hertfordshire- to the Holmes Family Estate – for a short weekend of peace and quiet and alone time. Theoretically, any how.

Unfortunately Sherlock, who had little to no understanding of such things, was persistently texting them both at the most inopportune moments with complaints of boredom and demands that they do something about it.

After a particularly pleasant instance had been interrupted by a succession of text alerts, each one seemingly more impatient than the last, Greg rolled over and propped his head up on an arm with a sigh. "For the love of god," he said to Mycroft, who was covering his face with his hands- ears pink with mortification, "can't you, for once, turn your bloody phone off?"

Unable to provide a valid reason, either to the detective inspector or himself, Mycroft leaned across Lestrade and reached for the guilty mobile. A tiny number seven was flashing accusingly at him in the corner of the screen. Mycroft's thumb lingered over it for a moment, almost of its own accord, before he felt a hand on his back and a murmur in his ear, "Are you _really_ having difficulty deciding between that-" Lestrade nodded towards the phone, "-and this?"

Mycroft allowed himself to be drawn down into the kiss. "Well, when you put it in such a persuasive way…" With a single deft movement, Sherlock was silenced and the phone flung carelessly to the far corner of the room in favour of more... _pressing _matters.

Satisfaction and cigarette smoke settled heavily on Mycroft's bedroom, rendering its occupants hazy and happy; Greg lay back against the headboard, propped up by more pillows than was strictly necessarily, Marlborough Light held in one hand whilst the other rested on Mycroft's shoulders as the younger man dozed contentedly on his chest – not quite tired but rather feeling that there was no other purpose other than to be there, as they were.

It was a good feeling, and one that they could definitely get used to given half a chance.

"Coffee?" Mycroft felt Lestrade murmur into his hair, the hand on his shoulder tracing delicious circles upon his skin.

Mycroft turned his face lazily upwards. "Is that an offer or a request?"

"Well," Greg kissed him lightly on the tip of his nose, "if you were to lend me that dressing gown you've got over there," the kiss meandered up to the spot between Mycroft's eyes, "and provided me with directions," forehead kisses were always a favourite, "and compass co-ordinates," Mycroft had stopped listening by that point, "then I will you go make you coffee. Otherwise," mildly cross that the kisses had stopped, Mycroft latched onto the sensitive part of Greg's neck with a low growl, eliciting an unrefined sigh from the Detective Inspector.

"You were saying?" mumbled Mycroft impishly with an erratic pulse between his teeth.

"Mmmwhat? Coffee...hmm..."

"Gregory, you're getting cigarette ash on my bed sheets..."

"Well, you shouldn't distract me when I'm smoking, should you?"

"Gregory, you're _singeing _my bed sheets..."

"_Shit_!"

There was an inelegant kerfuffle as Lestrade scrambled to extinguish the tiny fire that had flared up amidst the folds of expensive white silk. Mycroft watched with an amused smile playing in the corners of his lips as Greg surveyed the resulting scorch mark in dismay, mumbling sheepishly, "Sorry 'bout that."

Mycroft quirked an eyebrow but was unable to keep a straight face. "The least you can do," he said with a throaty chuckle as he stretched his arms up to the ceiling, long fingers cracking in a most satisfying way, "is make the coffee."

"Fair enough," said Greg with a lopsided grin, running a hand through his thick grey hair and swinging his legs over the side of the bed. "Directions please."

"My brother's melodramatic tendencies have rubbed off on you," Mycroft chided gently, reaching over to steal back most of the pillows from Greg's side.

"Mycroft, you've been to my flat – it could easily fit into this room twice over..." Lestrade wrapped the luxuriously soft towel dressing gown around himself under the approving gaze of Mycroft, adding without a trace of humour, "I may just have to nick this, you know."

"Please do," Mycroft assured him earnestly. "You look... _delectable._"

Greg drew himself up like a fluffy David. "I feels it."

The younger man laughed, "Hurry up with that coffee then and come back quickly!"

"Bossy..."

"Impatient," Mycroft corrected with a meaningful smirk. "Pass me my phone so you can ring me if you get lost."

"Or you could come with me?" Greg suggested hopefully, throwing the mobile neatly across the room.

Mycroft's answer to this was to bury himself even further down into the sheets, tugging the duvet right up to his nose.

Brown were raised to the heavens accompanied by the resigned sigh of a longsuffering boyfriend. "I'll assume you're staying here then?"

"You did almost kill us both just now," Mycroft reminded him sweetly.

Greg decided he probably couldn't argue with that.

* * *

It had taken less time than he had expected but more time than was strictly necessary for Lestrade to find the kitchen – the real challenge had been working out which of the fifty chrome cabinets held the Kenco. So far, he'd found five jars of different sorts of olives, eight flavours of tinned sardines, a cupboard dedicated purely to baked beans and another which housed hundreds of unlabeled herbs and spices. But no coffee.

Sods law dictated that he would find it in the last place he would look in. _'Fuck that..._' Flicking the switch of the kettle, Greg held down the on button of his phone, hoping that at least Mycroft would know the whereabouts of the missing jar.

No sooner had the screen flickered into life than the mobile buzzed, informing Lestrade of a hefty backlog of text messages that vitally required his attention. Knowing precisely who they were from and what to expect, Greg's lips thinned into a single grim line as his eyes drifted over his bursting inbox –

_**Sherlock Holmes (18:11)**_

_Obviously my brother is with you. Tell him to call me._

_- Sh_

_**Sherlock Holmes (18:23)**_

_This is important. Tell Mycroft to call me._

_- Sh_

_**Sherlock Holmes (18:36)**_

_I don't care what you're doing. Fornication is not a matter of national importance, no matter what my brother says. This is. Ring me._

_**Sherlock Holmes (18:50)**_

_I suppose I'd better start calling you 'Daddy', had I?_

_**Sherlock Holmes (19:07)**_

_Tell Mummy Mycroft that the threatening message he sent to my dealer didn't work and that, unless he wants a repeat of last time, he had better call me._

_**Sherlock Holmes (19:09)**_

_Selfish._

_**Sherlock Holmes (19:10)**_

_If you think I'm bailing you out of disgrace anymore you are sorely mistaken. Consider our relations ended._

_**Sherlock Holmes (19:10)**_

_John agrees that you are both being incredibly self-centred. Don't bother ringing if and when you finally stop behaving like animals. _

Well, that was certainly an effective way of bringing him out of his high spirits and back to reality with a bump, thought Lestrade grimly, doing his very best not to pay any real attention to the torrent of abuse that had been hurled at him. It had been a bad week for all of them and Sherlock was especially inept at dealing with a failed case. Presumably, John had grown sick of the consulting temper tantrums hours ago and had disappeared off to his girlfriend's, which was why he was hassling Mycroft and then, by proxy, him.

Of course, the next time a case came up, everything would be forgotten as though it had never happened... _Damn that man's indispensability!_

But, for now, there were more pressing matters at hand than the immaturity of Sherlock Holmes, such as the Mysterious Case of the Houdini found Mycroft's number with a quick succession of thumb-taps and lifted the device to his hear, unhooking two cups from the mug tree as he did so.

"_Welcome to Orange Answer Phone," _a woman greeted him jovially, "_I am sorry but the person you have called is unable to take your call. Please leave a-"_

Impatience made Greg hung up on her midsentence, minor trepidation settling uncomfortably in the pit of his stomach; there was only one person Mycroft could be on the phone to at that moment and it was highly unlikely that the conversation was a congenial one. He left the kettle boiling and retraced his steps back to Mycroft's bedroom, striding up two stairs at a time in his haste.

Upon approaching the door, Greg slowed – straining to listen through the thick wood. It was as he had expected; Mycroft's voice, clipped and strained, filtered clearly through the partition, "-yes, actually, I _do _think that this...No, no that's not what I'm trying to-... If you would just shut up for one moment! Sherlock? _Sherlock?_ Hello? For fuck _sake!_" This final exclamation was accompanied by a loud crash which made a startles Greg leap instinctively for the door handle, only to find that Mycroft had already beaten him to it.

Half way through the process of buttoning up a rumpled shirt, Mycroft froze in the doorway as though confused by Lestrade's presence. His jaw was clenched and his features taught to the point of snapping – a far cry from the Mycroft that Greg had left in bed not fifteen minutes ago.

Questions teetered on the edge of Lestrade's lips but, knowing that it would be most insensitive to ask the, the detective inspector settled for reaching tentatively out to take Mycroft's hands, drawing them gently down and away from their erratic fumbling with buttons and a soft, "Don't let your brother get to you."

Rather than being calmed by his lover's words, Mycroft's expression hardened even further; he wrenched his hands back, lips pressed tightly together in one thin line, as though he did not trust himself to speak, and pushed his way past a bewildered Greg.

"My! Come back!"

"I'm going out."

"Where?"

"For a walk. Is that _permitted_?"

Lestrade watched helplessly as Mycroft walked away – all the months of slowly, slowly softening the Ice Man trickling away to nothing before his eyes. He sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair before wandering wearily back into the bedroom. It felt different now, spoiled.

Feeling something tight wrap itself around his heart, Greg collapsed onto the bed and shut his eyes, as much to stop himself running after Mycroft than anything. He would come back in due course, he wasn't the kind of man to do anything stupid... it was a slight comfort he supposed, failing to convince even himself.

Somewhere near the large bay window, the familiar chime of Mycroft's phone sounded, rousing Lestrade from his thoughts. On a closer inspection, Greg found the device discarded on the floor with a large, unsightly crack down the middle of the screen – at least that explained the crash.

Unfortunately, despite the obvious force with which it had been thrown against the wall, it seemed that there was no serious damage to the phone as _**1**_ _**New Message Received**_was flashing up as cheerfully as ever. Without a moment's moral hesitation, Greg opened the message –

_**Sherlock Holmes (19:37)**_

_Mummy would be disgusted with your selfishness. I expect you're glad she died so you could behave exactly how you please. So much for all that big talk about family and sticking together etc. It's obvious what your priorities really are. I hope he's worth it. Fuck you._

Greg blanched at the potency of the venom contained within those few, brutal words and sighed heavily, sitting back down on the edge of the bed and lowering his head to his hands. "For fuck sake, Sherlock..."

* * *

The sharpened silver point of Mycroft's umbrella stabbed viciously at the soft turf of the lawn with every stride its owner made – the rhythmic collaboration of the tapping and his own heavy footsteps were an efficient vent for the raw emotions forced unwillingly to the surface by his brother.

One white-knuckled hand was clenched around the Malacca handle, whilst the other was thrust deep into the pocket of his overcoat as Mycroft marched onwards across the grounds – grey eyes fixed resolutely ahead, the destination was entirely irrelevant as long as he just kept on walking; it was the only thing that helped, the only thing capable of restoring his perfectly cultivated balance to what it needed to be.

Grass gave way to gravel which, in turn, quickly meandered into a muddy track, thick with fallen leaves and forest debris. The gradual inclination of the track forced Mycroft to slacken his pace marginally and allow the frenziedly spinning thoughts to calm down – just a fraction of a fraction – so that it was safe for Mycroft to return to the moment.

It was a well-worn path of habit and reflection and yet, somehow, no matter how many times he was driven along it, it never seemed any easier. At least, on previous occasions it had been private – Sherlock could have his little temper tantrums, Mycroft could have his and then that would be the end of it. This time it had been complicated. The image of Lestrade's expression as Mycroft had stormed away had imprinted itself at the forefront of the younger man's mind, rendering his mouth unbearably dry and setting his heart racing with unease again.

People complicate matters – he had never had difficulty remembering that before, and now he was paying the price for his carelessness. Dearly.

Something in his chest was stinging fiercely, causing the umbrella to stab the ground with renewed vehemence.

This was _precisely_ why he did do this – his brother making him feel as awful as it was possible to feel was one thing, but this added agony was far beyond what Mycroft was willing to endure.

'_Caring is not an advantage,'_ he had warned Sherlock only a few short months ago; the truth and significance of those words freezing an icy layer over everything else within his mind – protecting, preserving, anaesthetizing.

'_Never again,_' Mycroft Holmes promised himself grimly, using his umbrella to lever himself up a rather sharp incline. Family was duty and unavoidable, _this_ was recreational and superfluous; there was no contest as to which should take precedence. Not really. Practical solutions to impractical problems were a comfort of sorts and, as there were no solutions to Sherlock and there were to... other aspects of the problem, then it was only rational and logical that they should be the areas given the most attention, the most he should concentrate on altering.

It would be for the best, for everyone, in the long run. Nip it in the bud before it has the chance to blossom into something and then withers anyway, as it inevitably would. Less wasted time, less misplaced focus. Important to revaluate priorities. Even if he couldn't escape the brunt of Sherlock's drama, Gregory could and it would be kinder to finish- not that there would be anything left _to_ finish...

The sharp pain dissolved into the unbearable agony of heartache and spread suddenly, cripplingly, forcing Mycroft to transfer his weight to his umbrella as his knees grew weak beneath him and washing away any desire for logic and reason.

* * *

"_Welcome to Orange Answer Phone. I am sorry but-"_

With a low growl of exasperation, Greg hung up on the jovial woman, not that he knew what he would have said had Sherlock deigned to answer his phone. Without any real thought but unable to sit by and do nothing, he thumbed through his contact list until he came to _John Watson_. It was unlikely that the doctor would be able to help, but any conversation had to be better than the one he would have with himself.

The dial tone almost rang out before the resigned voice of John Watson sounded at the other end of the line, "_Hello?_"

"Hi, John. It's Greg here."

"_Ah, Greg...'_ He sounded neither surprised nor pleased to hear from the detective inspector.

"I suppose you know why I'm calling?"

A deep sigh from the other end of the line, "_Has Sherlock been winding you up? He's in the worst mood tonight.'_

"Well, yes, but that's fine, that's not why I'm ringing. It's Mycroft-"

"_Ah_."

"Ah? You sound as though you've been expecting this...?"

"_Well, it is fairly normal,"_ John admitted. "_Seeing as he's pissed everyone else off to the point of not speaking to him, Mycroft's the only one he's got left to vent at. I'm afraid I didn't even give him a chance," _the doctor added apologetically, _"I've been at Mary's all day."_

Greg sighed, shuffling round and drawing up his legs beneath him, "I can't really blame you."

"_How's Mycroft?_"

"Not good. He threw his phone against the wall and stormed off."

"_...Shit._"

"Yeah. No idea what's going on, to be honest."

The doctor made a despairing sound, the shake of his head almost audible, "_Each time, Sherlock gets closer and closer to overstepping the mark._"

A jolt of anger flashed through Lestrade. "Personally, I think he's already overstepped the mar by a mile," he said, stiff with self-restraint. "He's _still_ sending nonsense to Mycroft's phone; I'm deleting them as they arrive."

"_Very wise_," John agreed. "_He can be pretty brutal via text."_

Greg gave a bark of hollow laughter, "I noticed."

There was a beat of hesitation then, as though betraying the strictest confidence, "_You know, when it comes down to it, it's all about jealousy, don't you?"_

Lestrade couldn't help but scoff at this, "Jealous? Of Mycroft? Are you serious?"

"_Completely_," he was assured sincerely. "_Apparently, it's always been like that – if Mycroft has something that Sherlock doesn't, he'll either try to get it for himself or, failing that, take it away entirely so that neither of them can have it."_

"What the _fuck_?"

"_I know. Smurfs, lego, one girlfriend once... Sherlock's actually admitted that it's all fair game to him. I think that's what's going on here, to be honest, Greg. Not to mention he thinks you've stolen his position in Mycroft's priorities."_

"Oh come on..._"_

"_No, seriously. I know it's ludicrous, but you know Sherlock."_

Greg was forced to admit that he did. "But that doesn't excuse it."

"_I know,"_ the doctor assured him, "_And it shouldn't."_

"So, what the hell do I do now?"

"_What can you do? Wait it out, talk to Mycroft... it's something you've got to sort out together. As for Sherlock... well, there's nothing that anyone _can_ do about Sherlock."_

Lestrade rubbed his temple roughly with his free hand, not feeling remotely better about anything in the slightest. "Fair enough, I suppose you're right. Cheers, John."

"_Sorry I can't be much use-"_

"No. No, it's fine. I know there's nothing you can do. Look, I'd better go, but I'll let you know if anything happens." Like anything was going to happen...

"_Okay. Hope Mycroft turns up soon. Take care, Greg."_

"You too. Bye."

"_Bye."_

* * *

The walk had been longer than the usual one – sufficiently longer, and not helped by the fact that the longer it grew, the sooner he would have to turn back and face Gregory – or _not_ face Gregory, more to the point – and, therefore, the less willing he was to turn around and begin the trek home.

Still, even at his most fretful, Mycroft knew that permanent and purposeful avoidance of the truth was counterproductive and, more to the point, short of sleeping outside, underneath his umbrella, there was little else to be done _but _return home and deal with whatever it was that needed to be dealt with. An empty bed and a cold cup of coffee, most likely. And, of course, the obligatory inbox full of brotherly affection. The nerve in Mycroft's throat twitched at the thought of Sherlock, his unyielding, childish selfishness almost too much to forgive. Almost.

Naturally, within a week or so, relations between them would resume as normal. Or, at least, as normal as they were ever likely to be. In the past, Mycroft had tried to punish Sherlock for longer, withdrawing all support and contact in its entirety, but, ultimately, it had been he who had suffered for it, rather than his brother, and Sherlock held onto grudges much longer and much stronger than Mycroft ever seemed able to. In short, it simply wasn't worth it.

Although, this time...

'_No,'_ Mycroft told himself sternly – he was already letting one thing go; there would be no benefit from giving up the other as well.

Giving his feet permission to carry him home against his will, Mycroft turned reluctantly on his heel and began the long descent down the path and back through the forest, pulling his overcoat tighter around him as the evening chill made itself known.

He had given up trying to occupy himself what seemed like hours ago and, resorting to sitting on the sill of the large bay window with his knees up, Greg stared out across the extensive gardens with ever increasing listlessness. The sun had set at what seemed like an alarming speed, chased away by the cool Spring darkness, and he was starting to seriously question what the hell he was going to – what he was _expected_ – to do if Mycroft didn't appear at all. How long was he supposed to wait before he gave up, or start panicking? Should he have started panicking already? Maybe he should go out looking... but then, what if Mycroft were to return then and find him gone? That would _definitely_ cause more problems than it would solve.

Uselessness was not a feeling that Greg Lestrade was either accustomed to or comfortable with. _'Itchy feet,' _Dad had always said. _'A gift on the pitch, a plague in the house_.' It felt indecent, almost, to be sitting around in a dressing gown with his feet up whilst there was a problem to be solved... Only thing was, it seemed like that was the only way it _was_ going to be solved. Damn it all to hell!

Locking his fingers together around his knees, Greg leaned his head back and tried to distract himself from the slow passage of time by looking for the Big Dipper. There were too many clouds. He hoped that Mycroft had remembered his umbrella. The slightest smile twitched in the corners the detective inspector's lips – even if they were being raided by ninja zombies and had to leave in seconds, the umbrella would be the first thing Mycroft would reach for. Greg was _definitely_ the third wheel in this... relationship? Flirtationship? Mutually beneficial thingymajig? Thing which was but is no longer? A right-behind-the-eyes migraine struck suddenly and brutally; Lestrade grimaced, pressing his fingers to his temples in an attempt to lessen the pain. It was a futile endeavour.

Distracted by the headache, Greg almost missed the shape traipsing across the lawn, but the movement caught his eye, his mood picked up and Lestrade jumped immediately to his feet with the distinct air of an abandoned collie whose people have returned.

* * *

Mycroft's expression when Greg opened the door to him was not encouraging – he stared, as though confused as to why the other man was there, before astonishment gave way to dismay and his gaze dropped to the floor.

A slight crease of confusion appeared between Lestrade's eyes at this unexpected reception. He reached out and drew Mycroft inside before shutting the heavy door on the weather with one hand and removing the soaking umbrella from Mycroft's unresisting grasp with the other. "I've started a bath off for you," he said, sounding brighter than he felt, giving the umbrella a shake and propping it up against the wall, "and there's a pot of coffee brewing in the kitchen. I figured you'd be cold when you got back, so..." his voiced petered away into a long, lingering silence. The steadily encroaching sinking feeling was not helped by the fact that Mycroft was keeping his eyes resolutely averted and his mouth shut. Doing his best to keep the unease out of his voice, Greg enquired cautiously, "Did it help, the walk? You feeling better?"

With obvious reluctance, Mycroft raised his head slowly; the utter remorse in the usually placid expression articulate everything in far too much detail for Greg Lestrade's liking.

The detective inspector felt his heart plummet as the inevitable started to take place. "Oh god..."

Mycroft opened his mouth, thought better of it and shut it again, then, taking a deep breath, the first syllable of Greg's name began to form on his lips – guilt rendering him not quite able to meet the other's eye.

"Shut up! Just... shut up."

Mycroft, thrown somewhat by Lestrade's outburst, blinked twice and promptly obeyed.

Unsure quite what to say or where to go from there, Greg turned and walked a few paces away, running a fretful hand through his hair, before changing direction and coming back again. His journey had not brought enlightenment. He could feel Mycroft's eyes on him, waiting for something, some exchange for his silence. But there was nothing to offer that would result in the conversation that Lestrade was so desperate to avoid.

Finally, with a sigh, "You should have that bath now, it'll be cold soon. I'll stick the coffee in the microwave and bring it up in a sec."

A pained expression flickered across Mycroft's face, "Gregory-"

"_Please_."

After a moment's hesitation, the younger man gave a compliant nod and headed towards the staircase, leaving a worn out Lestrade in the entrance hall at a loss to know what had just happened.

* * *

Mycroft lowered himself into the hot water, shuddering at the sudden dramatic change in temperature before the warmth soaked through his body and finally allowed him a certain measure of relaxation. Letting go of a long breath, he sank down so that the bubbles gathered around his chin and shut his eyes against the bright white light of the bathroom bulbs. There was nothing _quite _like a bath, that was for sure.

The sharp sound of china on metal woke Mycroft from his steam-induced reverie; he raised his head languidly to see a large mug of coffee now sitting beside his head and a detective inspector standing above him. He offered a small, bleary smile of thanks which Greg returned tentatively before placing his own mug next to Mycroft and sitting down on the tiled floor, leaning against the bath so that they were face to face.

"What's going on, Mycroft?" Greg asked, propping his head up on his arms. "Fill me in here."

Mycroft regarded him for a moment then, in a quiet un-Holmesian voice, "I don't know."

"You don't know?"

A small shake of the head.

Greg sighed and sat up, reaching for his coffee. "Well, if you don't know-" he drank deeply, "-I'll be damned if anyone else does."

"It just seemed to make sense," said Mycroft, voice slightly muffled by Body Shop Bubbles, "to nip it in the bud before-"

A frustrated glance was thrown. "Nip _what_ in the bud, exactly?" Greg watched with mild amusement as Mycroft's ears turned pink. "Anyway, that's besides the point," he continued, "what I want to know is since when was this about _us_?" The shade of pink brightened considerably and Mycroft had to quickly focus his attention on his own mug. Lestrade pressed on, "I mean, I thought this was about you and your dick of a brother, not about you and _me_."

"Exactly. It simply isn't logical to bring you into the middle of our... _nonsense_. It's problematic enough without other people complicating matters."

" '_Other people'_?"

"You know what I mean..."

"To be perfectly honest with you, Mycroft, no I don't." Lestrade could feel his frustration mounting. "What I _know_ is that your brother, in all his ineffable egotism, decides to have a tantrum, - which you rise to _perfectly_, might I add – and in one fell swoop ruins, what promises to be, a wonderful evening and probably the relaxing weekend we deserve after the week we have spent doing, what was it again? Oh yes – running around after said brother. I also know that, because of this, you flip out too – which is perfectly reasonable – snap at me and storm out – which is _less_ reasonable, but understandable. Then you disappear for an indeterminable amount of time, having given me no indication of what you are doing or where you are going – which scared the _fuck_ out of me, by the way, and, to top it all off, you turn up with your mind made up to finish with me for no good reason apart from 'it simply isn't logical'! Which, by the way, is neither reasonable _nor_ understandable, so don't try to apply your ridiculous sense of _logic_ to this because it is defunct!" he finished with a dramatic hand gesture which threw coffee over a large expanse of white tiling.

Mycroft stared at him, eyebrows raised in surprise, unsure whether or not he was allowed to speak and not a hundred percent certain what he would say, were it to transpire that he was. Gregory was staring back at him with a fierce look, out of breath and panting from the excursion of his outburst. Then, cautiously, "You weren't looking for an escape route, then?"

Lestrade made a vaguely obscene noise and turned so that he was sitting with his back against the bathtub, glowering into the dregs of his coffee. "I thought you were meant to be a deductive genius?"

"And I thought you wanted something reasonably simple after Caroline."

Greg returned to resting his chin on the white metal edge, "Then I suppose neither of us are exactly whizkids, are we?"

A soft chuckle rose in Mycroft's throat, "No," he admitted, with only with the very faintest reluctance. "I suppose we aren't."

They shared a smile, affection thawing the lingering remnants of tension.

"I was so sure I'd come back to find you gone," Mycroft confessed, grey eyes searching Greg's face.

"That's because you're daft," Lestrade chided gently, placing a soft kiss on the tip of his nose. "You should have more faith in me. Maybe it's something we'll need to work on for the future." His gaze flicked up and an amused look spread across his face, "Why're your ears going pink?"

Grimacing, Mycroft sank back down into the few remaining bubbles, refusing to look at the teasing expression.

Greg gave a deep, throaty chuckle and scrambled unceremoniously to his feet. "Clearly that's something to work on too."

Mycroft pulled a face and sat up, causing waves to splash up over the taps. He nodded to the newly created space, "Coming in?"

But Greg shook his head. "Nope. I have more important matters to attend to."

Mycroft was visibly disappointed. "Such as?" he demanded with a tinge of his brother's churlishness.

"Such as warming the bed up for when you get out."

Mycroft forgave him wholeheartedly in an instant, toes already searching for the bath plug.

It had been an entire week of Clearing-Up-After-Sherlock for both Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade, but the weekend had more than made up for it. Even the drama of Saturday evening had failed to put a dampener on the first significant amount of time the two of them had spent together, solidifying what had already been known and confirming what hadn't. In a very subsidiary fashion, Sherlock had done his bit to help them along their way - not that they would even confess this to anyone else but each other – and both phones remained firmly switched off for what was left of the weekend. Certain things were more important than the crises of other people.


End file.
